Stakes and Spikeability
by FaithAnne
Summary: Buffy turns Jane Austen into hard work.


Summers Manor  
Sunnydale Village  
April 16th, 1802  
  
  
Most Excellent Professor,  
  
I am writing to express my gratitude and delight in anticipation of the forthcoming outing you have arranged for my dearest sister Dawn. I am firmly of the belief that fresh air and exercise can be most beneficial to the constitution of young ladies, and it is with the certainty that you have made all of the appropriate accommodations that I entrust her to your care.  
  
I must confess to being quite envious of the treats in store for dearest Dawn and her particular friends! I know that our sainted Mother would have agreed that these moments in a young lady's life will be cherished memories long after the pages in her diary have yellowed with the passing of time.  
  
Thank you once again, learned sir, you truly have bestowed a treasured gift upon this family.  
  
Your obedient servant  
Miss Summers.  
  
  
Buffy signed the note and folded it into a prettily lettered envelope that bore the slight fragrance of lilacs. She was heating some wax to seal it shut when Dawn grabbed the envelope and tore it open.  
  
"What the hell is this?" she shrieked.  
  
"Dearest Dawn, please don't speak in those tones. It is quite unseemly for a young lady" Buffy gently remonstrated.  
  
Dawn quickly read the note. "Professor? WHAT Professor? He's a substitute gym teacher! He's taking us to the park to play SOFTBALL! It's supposed to be a stupid permission note! Have you gone insane? Again? That's like, the fourth time this week!"  
  
"Ah, youthful exuberance. You are full of mischief today, Dearest Dawn!"  
  
"And stop calling me Dearest! I am NOT your Dearest! You couldn't even stand to look at me for the first 17 episodes, including those months when we were in re-run hell! Remember? I've been snarling at you about it for weeks! I'm a teenager! I'm supposed to hate you and you're supposed to occasionally be patronising but mostly ignore me!"  
  
"Dearest Dawn, anyone would think you are accusing me of not selflessly sacrificing my life, my dignity and all prospects of happiness just to ensure you are still clinically alive."  
  
"You're totally self-involved! Everything's ALWAYS about YOU!!"  
  
"Dearest Dawn, a gentle female should not devote extended periods to the inappropriate pastime of introspection. I am quite careful not to be seen indulging in my own sorry circumstances; in fact, I spend most of my time contemplating avoiding such a situation!"  
  
Dawn had pretty much used up her vocabulary and couldn't think of any more words that sounded good when you screeched them, so she loudly ground her teeth and sashayed out. She couldn't even be bothered flouncing any more; things had gotten so bad lately that she was doing it all the time, and it was pretty draining. Better to save her energy for the escapade Fingers had planned for later that night. She slammed the door just as Buffy called after her "I've laid out your extra petticoats! And packed you a hearty luncheon!"  
  
Dawn slammed the door shut and pranced out of the front gate like an angry Shetland pony tossing its shiny mane. She saw something large and white in the distance, and realised it was her friend Janice's forehead. She caught up and immediately started bitching. "Enough is enough! I'm going to call the cable company and have the BBC channel disconnected. She sat up all night with Spike, watching some lame frilly costume thing full of prissy girls and pasty-faced boys, and now she's calling herself 'the elder Miss Summers' and doing needlework on everything! You know that old Dingoes t-shirt Fingers and I liberated from Willow's closet? Look!"  
  
Dawn unbuttoned her coat to reveal a black t-shirt, all of the strategically ripped rebellious teenage holes embroidered over with silk thread. It had been trimmed with pink lace and now bore a long satin train.  
  
"Ew, dude, you look like a total dork".  
  
"Thanks," Dawn sulked as she pulled on her kid gloves and bonnet. "Fingers is going to kill himself laughing when he sees me, well, except he's already dead, and I know I'm going to trip over this train again..."  
  
  
  
Spike stood in front of the mirror and tucked his cravat into his handsome green velvet waistcoat. He looked up to admire the reflection and liked what he saw. The wall behind him could do with a coat of paint, and it was pretty cracked and mouldy, and stained with years of damp, but other than that it was a fairly attractive scene. He stepped back, looked at the mirror itself and sniggered, a kind of half-laugh and half about-to-spit, which he had been perfecting lately. Why didn't he just cover the mirror over when Buffy wasn't around? The only reason he'd scrounged it from the dump was so that she could stare at herself to occupy her time between bouts of thinking about herself.  
  
But Spike was onto it. Nobody ever said he wasn't a cluey bugger. He knew that if he just played along with it, indulged her in her little fantasies, that he was in like Flynn. So last night, when he realised that Buffy had decided she was an impoverished Regency heroine in a delicate situation with a headstrong younger sister in her charge and no immediate prospects for marriage until a handsome proud dark stranger comes into her life, he decided he had to jump at this opportunity before Buffy set off in her horse and buggy for LA and Mr Tall Dark-Knows All About Talking Like A Nancy Arse Because I Actually Met Jane Austen And She Was Delicious Thanks For Asking-Angel, who would probably look a lot better in these tight bloody britches. Hopefully Angel would have to wear the cat's fur wig as well, which would make Buffy faint in horror and take the high road home as soon as she came around. But Spike wasn't willing to take any chances so decided this was the time to make his move.  
  
He entered the hot, steamy Summers kitchen, and eventually through the mist saw Buffy wearing her hair tied in a checked scarf, her sleeves rolled up and her long skirts hitched around her knees, her apron already grimy and splashed with soap.  
  
"Bloody hell, you look a right mess! Er, what I meant to say is, Miss Summers, what calamitous event has caused you to be somewhat less particular in your personal hygiene than usual?"  
  
"Oh, Fitzwilliam, you must go before the steam wilts your necktie! I am just cleaning the draperies before tomorrow night's ball. It is very difficult without the scullery maid - I wonder why she did not come to work today? I had thought she was a trustworthy, hard working girl."  
  
"Buffy, she was here selling cosmetics. I doubt she would come back after you made her scrub the floors and then bought nothing but a two-sized pencil sharpener."  
  
"But Fitzwilliam, it is such a marvellous device! My stakes and arrows will be the pointiest they have ever been. Which reminds me, what say you of the errand I sent you on?"  
  
"Look, Buffy, I think this is a bloody stupid idea. I think it's much better coming from you."  
  
"Fitzwilliam, there are only some things a lady can do. I know that I am not always able to carry myself quite the way I would prefer, due to my unique situation, and the whole destiny thing, but I know where to draw the line. You must go in my place and carry my message. Please Fitzwilliam, allow me to prey upon your generosity, for the good of all mankind. I know that means a lot to you."  
  
"Well when you put it that way, how can I refuse? You've hit my soft spot, so to speak. You know that the safety of humanity is my main concern."  
  
"Dearest Fitzwilliam, I am always able to count on you in dire circumstances. A kind soul-less soul such as yours is sure to be rewarded on the day you, too, can enter Heea-ven."  
  
"Great, can't wait. Anyway, give us your glove then, and I'll be off."  
  
Some hours later, after Spike had taken tea and listened to Buffy's warbling as she accompanied herself on the pianoforte, he stepped gingerly through the rubble, so as not to speck the boots Buffy had forced the mailman to polish for him, and pulled off a piece of corrugated metal from the crumbling doorway. He stepped inside, and saw a couple of vampires lying around, up to no good in their usual evil way. He strode into the middle and threw down a turquoise silk beaded glove.  
  
No Good Vampire #1 looked up at Spike with one eyebrow lazily arched. Not that you could actually call them eyebrows. These guys were permanently in vamp-face, after all.  
  
"Hey, doll face, pity it don't match your eyes!" The vamp may have been evil, but he was certainly no great wit. And Spike thought his eyes complemented the glove nicely, but that was beside the point.  
  
"It's not my glove, you great wally, it's the Slayer's. I'm here to deliver it to you. As a message. You know. Please don't make me say it."  
  
"Say what?" said No Good And Even More Witless Vampire #2.  
  
"Oh I get it," said #1 "the Slayer's trying to be clever. Not too often you can get by old Number One, though. This is a warning - she's trying to threaten us, saying if we don't do as she says she's going to - give us a manicure."  
  
"Dude, not one of those Frenchy ones where they paint half your nail white like they do to corpses?" cried #2. "That's gross! Na-huh, I ain't lettin' her near me with no orange stick. Those things are just scary. Let's get out of here."  
  
"You daft idiots, you're missing the point. This is supposed to be a gauntlet - the Slayer's gauntlet. I'm throwing it down for her. She's challenging you to a duel. She says that's the way it's supposed to be done in fashionable circles."  
  
Number One and Number Two looked warily at each other. They didn't want to seem uninformed about the ways of society, but this was something new to them. Appearances mean a lot to vampires though, so they recovered as quickly as they could and turned back to Spike.  
  
"Well if the Slayer's supposed to be the one throwing stuff down at us why'd she send you to do it?"  
  
"Well - look, I know this sounds pissweak, but I'm her second. I'm supposed to come and arrange it all while she gets ready, or drinks ale or something. So it's ten minutes before sunrise up at Duelling Vampire Hill this Sunday."  
  
Spike turned and walked out but not soon enough to avoid hearing Number One yell after him the obligatory "He kills our kind!" It always made him laugh. That same sniggery-spit. He tapped his riding crop against the bricks and strode off down the street.  
  
Dawn turned a corner hurriedly and almost broke her nose on Spike's fob watch. "Cripes, what are you up to then, little bit? Out lurking around the seedy part of town, creating turmoil no doubt?"  
  
"Well, it started out fun. Fingers had this great surprise for me, it was going to make me the happiest girl in the world. It's sweet that he's so considerate. I just wish he'd get a handkerchief. Anyway, we had to sneak around real quiet-like until he gave me the signal. We broke into this warehouse - it was so cool, I got to pick locks an' all. But when we got inside, and I saw what Fingers was so excited about - oranges! Says he's never seen one, he'd only heard stories and didn't believe they really existed. He always dreamed that when he died and went to Heea-ven it would be full of oranges. Well, now thanks to you, he's here and thinks he's in Heea-ven. How can I have fun with him when he believes he's an angel and should try and be good from now on?"  
  
"Don't worry love, the temptation will be too much for 'im, and he'll be back to his tea-leafing in no time flat. Mark my words, he'll be full of wicked schemes sooner than you can say - Hey! You little rotter! Come back with my watch then!"  
  
They laughed indulgently as Fingers whipped back up the drainpipe and could hear the clanking of the watch as he scurried across the roof. "Thanks Spike, you're the best! See you at the ball tomorrow night!" Dawn tripped off happily down the street. Not the acid kind of tripping. And not the falling flat on your face kind either. Although that would be funny.  
  
"Oh, those plucky little rascals! What merry hi-jinks will we see next?" Spike shook his head and snigger-spat his way home.  
  
  
  
The next evening, Willow came in through the Summers kitchen door, to find Buffy folding napkins while directing some chain-smoking navvies with heavy-lifting equipment.  
  
"Sir, I must insist you take care! I do not want to see my precious furnishings damaged by your clumsiness!" Buffy turned to see Willow, wearing an unflattering corset-type thingy over billowy sleeves and many layers of mis-matching lacy monstrosity. "Dearest Willow, did you procure that gown from that most capable and excellent dressmaker I recommended on High Holborne Street?"  
  
"No, I actually borrowed this from Tara. You know, we're gay."  
  
"Of course you are Dearest Willow, how can one not be gay on such a lovely evening! And I hope that once tonight's festivities commence, we shall all be merry and gay!"  
  
"Well, fingers crossed! What's with all the machinery?"  
  
"Poor unfortunate Dearest Xander is having trouble fitting into his pantaloons. We've set up a whole hilarious scene later where we have Xander suspended from a crane while one of the big tough navvies ties his corsets. You know the new policy is to only show the briefest glimpse of Xander each episode, and now that Anya's not around and we have to focus solely on him, what better way to highlight his many talents than to jest at his expense?"  
  
"Ah, the eternal butt-monkey. Nice to see we're still going with the classics. Anyway, gotta go and see if there's any way I can ugly this dress up some more." Willow waved gay-ly as she headed upstairs.  
  
  
  
The ball was progressing splendidly; a tight squeeze, but that was the best way to judge the success of such an occasion. It was always going to be difficult to invite more than the requisite three hundred, as her living room was only designed to hold twenty five.  
  
Buffy was clearing away the refreshment glasses, when she heard a noise upstairs. She knocked on Willow's bedchamber door, and heard a shriek and a giggle. "What jolly fun is being had in here?" she wondered upon entering. She saw Willow and Tara hiding beneath the bed clothes. "Dearest Willow, why have you retired early when the festivities are not yet over? We are about to play parlour games, in the bathroom actually, because we have no parlour that I'm aware of."  
  
"Hey, maybe I can just say something in Latin, twitch my nose and build you a parlour? Or..." seeing the look on Tara's face "...not?" Willow remembered her magical magic addiction, and a sudden thirst overcame her.  
  
"I can understand you feeling giddy at all of the excitement. Quite wise of you both to come up here to refresh yourselves and calm your agitated spirits. Although I don't understand why you are dressed as a nurse, Dearest Tara, and you, Dearest Willow, are wearing the scullery maid's uniform?"  
  
"Damn, the costume-shop guy told me it was a French maid. And it's because we're gay, Buffy," Willow patiently explained for the 28 millionth time. "We do things like this because it's all good sexy gay fun. We sleep in the same bed because we're gay."  
  
"Of course you sleep in the same bed. Why, when I was younger and stayed at the seaside with our dearest cousins, we slept 10 to a bed. Young ladies can be quite full of naughty capers at times. We were all infected with such gay high spirits!"  
  
"Yeah, well I don't think it's quite the same thing. Anyway, you just go off and enjoy the rest of the ball and we'll stay up here." Willow pushed Buffy out the door as Tara re-emerged from the closet wearing an Elvira costume.  
  
Buffy walked towards the stairs just as Spike burst through the parlour doorway, looking very concerned. And with toilet paper stuck to his shoe. "Buffy, we need to go out and look for Dawn! She's run off with a soldier, a ne'er do well who's only interested in sullying her virtue. She's jilted Fingers and..." Spike stopped and looked at Buffy. She was cocking her head to the side - in much the same way he did when he was expressing surprise. Or wonder. Or longing. Or happiness. Or sadness. Or understanding. Or boredom. Or tummy-ache.  
  
"What is it, Buffy? What ails you?"  
  
"That voice - that singing? What tender tenor is serenading my guests in my parlour? Why does it echo so?"  
  
"Oh that, it's only Giles. He's just flown in. He came back to collect a book he'd left under the short leg of the couch, and decided to stay for the ball. He's flying back home straight after. Would you like to go in and see him before we charge out to rescue Dawn?"  
  
"Giles... Giles..." Buffy said the name, over and over. It did strike a faint chord in her memory - perhaps he had been her Dearest Father's butler? She didn't have time to worry about that now. "Never mind this Giles person, I'm sure I will have plenty of opportunities to further our acquaintance at some later stage. We have more pressing matters at hand. Let us speak no more of this Giles person." And they never did. Ever.  
  
Buffy was then struck with one of those happy notions befitting young ladies in her position. "Why, Fitzwilliam, I have just been struck with a happy notion befitting a young lady in my position! Indeed we should NOT chase after Dawn. We should let her escape to Gretna Green to marry this bounder and then I will be rid of her at last! Why didn't I think of this before?"  
  
"Because you were too busy unravelling the mysteries of mathematics, from what I can remember. But you can't just let Dawn go! She's your sister, the Key! Remember, the monks made her out of you! She's a part of you! You threatened to kill those you loved and destroy the world if anyone so much as laid a finger on her shiny head! But hey, I'm happy to go with it if it works for you."  
  
Spike turned to go back into the parlour and console Fingers, when he remembered Buffy's duel. "Shouldn't you be getting the horses hitched to the buggy, Slayer? It's only half an hour until sunrise, and you've got to fix the mare's shoe."  
  
"Dearest Fitzwilliam, I have given this much more thought than you would credit me for. I planned our duel to be fought at 10 minutes to sunrise. Now, I know it is not polite to be tardy, but I plan to be 15 minutes late. If these vampires are gentlemen they won't dream of leaving a rendezvous with a lady before she has appeared. That would not only be impolite, but dishonourable. So I plan to do nothing more exerting than borrowing the blacksmith's broom and sweeping up the dust of mine enemies. Is that not a plan of such brilliance and cunning that you are dazzled by it?"  
  
"Er, whatever. Makes sense though. But look Buffy, I'm not going to beat around the bush anymore. This whole regency dandy thing's too much bloody hard work, what with all the hair-powdering and cravat-ironing and all. What say you we sod this whole caper then?"  
  
Buffy looked at him hesitantly, then ripped off her tiara and crushed it under one delicate satin shoe. "You're right, I can't cope with all of this - I'm getting my period romance/dramas confused. I almost said "forsooth" a couple of times in there, and if I get into the whole Shakespeare thing - well, we don't even want to think about how much butchering I could do to The Brad."  
  
"Don't you mean Bard?" asked Spike.  
  
"If you say so. Anyway, I'm just going to change into something more comfortable and easily torn off, then we should grab some of that mulled wine, go get wasted and boink all night."  
  
"Sounds good pet. Just remember to wear something with a bodice. For ripping..." 


End file.
